V2 A Novel of World War II - Robert Harris Page 0,54

then on the house number and announced they had arrived.

‘Are you sure?’

‘That’s what it says here, ma’am.’

They clambered out of the jeep. He was flustered, in a hurry, muttering that he had other WAAFs to drop off around town. He retrieved her suitcase and the box of food, deposited them on the wet pavement, wished her goodnight and drove away. She looked around. She had no idea where she was, let alone how to find her way back to the bank the next morning. For the first time, she felt a twist of panic, which she at once suppressed. As dangers went, it hardly ranked with flying alone eight miles above Berlin. She turned the metal ring of the gate handle, picked up her suitcase, tucked the cardboard box under her arm and put her shoulder to the wood. The hinges squeaked and gave reluctantly.

A path of worn stones led across a small muddy garden to a front door. She rang the bell and stepped back to look up at the tall house. A crack of yellow light shone from a window on an upper floor, quickly extinguished as the curtain was closed. After a minute she heard a shuffle of feet on the other side of the door, the sound of bolts being drawn back, a key turned. It opened part way. One side of an elderly male face peered out at her over the door chain.

‘Dr Vermeulen?’

‘Ja?’

‘I’m Section Officer Angelica Caton-Walsh of the British Royal Air Force.’

A single rheumy eye rolled in exasperation, exposing yellow whites. He said something angrily in Flemish.

Kay said, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

‘Je ne parle pas anglais!’

‘Peut-on parler français?’

He gave a reluctant grunt. ‘Oui.’

For the second time that day, the teaching nuns of Our Lady’s came to her aid. ‘Je suis l’officier de section Angelica Caton-Walsh de la force aérienne britannique. Vous m’attendez?’

He scrutinised her face, looked at the box of food and then at her again. ‘J’ai dit à l’officier anglais: non!’

I told the English officer: no. ‘Did you indeed,’ she muttered under her breath. She was starting to lose her temper, standing in the rain. She gestured to the sky. ‘Je suis désolé,’ she said firmly, ‘mais je suis ici!’

He glared at her for a few more seconds, then sighed, unfastened the chain and opened the door.

The hall reminded her of her grandmother’s house – a black-and-white tiled floor with a threadbare rug, heavy wooden furniture, a dinner gong, a metal crucifix, pictures of saints and various embroidered religious texts around the walls, the tick of a long-case clock, and an obscure smell of something … not dead exactly, but mouldy, ancient, of another time. It was colder than it had been in the jeep. She put down her suitcase but kept hold of the box of food.

Dr Vermeulen closed the door and locked and bolted it. He was bald and bony, sixty-something, with liver spots on his hands and skull. A bottle-green cardigan hung loosely from his sloping shoulders. He called up the stairs, ‘Amandine!’

The wooden boards creaked and at once a woman began to descend. She must have been listening from the landing, dressed as if she was about to go out, in thick shoes and a dark coat. Her grey hair was cut in a mannish helmet. She inspected Kay through wire-framed spectacles. Vermeulen said something to her in Flemish, then turned to Kay and shrugged: ‘Ma femme.’

Kay held out the food. ‘This is for you,’ she said in French. ‘I am sorry for the imposition.’

The woman took the carton and peered down into it. She looked up with a slightly friendlier expression and replied, also in French, ‘You had better come into the warm.’

Kay followed them past the ticking clock and into the kitchen. Dr Vermeulen’s slippers slapped against the flagstone floor.

A big dresser was filled with blue-and-white china. Two high-backed wooden chairs with cushions and blankets were drawn up in front of an iron stove. On the table was a pile of old cloth-bound books and some woollen socks that were being darned. Mrs Vermeulen pushed the sewing out of the way and set down the box. She began taking out the contents and examining them with an expression of wonder. Two red tins of Fray Bentos corned beef. An army-ration tin of meat and vegetable stew. A packet of tea. Three rashers of bacon wrapped in greaseproof paper. A tin of condensed milk. A small loaf. An egg box. A slab of chocolate. She lined